Desert Mistress
Desert Mistress
HELEN BIANCHIN
FORBIDDEN!Bargain with the devil! Kristi's journalist brother was a hostage, and only one man could help: Sheikh Shalef Al-Sayed. He had power and influence at his fingertips - but how could Kristi win his support? Shalef was way out of her league. His world of wealth and privilege was closed to Kristi… .Gate-crashing his glamorous cocktail party was the only way of grabbing his attention! But Kristi got more than she bargained for. Becoming the mistress of this enigmatic, dangerously attractive man hadn't been part of her plan, yet this was the deal and Kristi had no choice. If she wanted Shalef's help, she'd have to play the game his way, and he was clearly making - and breaking - all the rules!"Helen Bianchin mixes suspense with enthralling characters into an intense reading experience." - Romantic Times on Forgotten Husband
“I want you with me.” (#uc23eef1f-f773-5fb4-97d9-0d929cfd2ee2)About the Author (#ud520f4ca-daba-5037-8f37-6581d0620ced)Title Page (#u96e6ee8c-ee5a-5718-862a-96c02ab92e82)CHAPTER ONE (#u73c776b4-25fd-51e8-8a95-5ddf2d27dab0)CHAPTER TWO (#u95199063-09da-5e05-ae8a-611cd0e58b79)CHAPTER THREE (#u83b70e35-0659-5802-99cd-5041b320b405)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“I want you with me.”
The breath caught in her throat and threatened to choke her.
“No comment, ”Kristi?” Shalef queried with a degree of mocking cynicism.
“As what?” Was that her voice? Even to her own ears it sounded impossibly husky. “Your mistress?”
“There are many advantages.”
Her eyes met his and held them. “I don’t want to be content with second best, waiting for a stolen night or two. I would rather not have you at all!”
HELEN BIANCHIN was born in New Zealand and traveled to Australia before marrying her Italian-born husband. After three years they moved, returned to New Zealand with their daughter, had two sons, then resettled in Australia. Encouraged by friends to recount anecdotes of her years as a tobacco sharefarmer’s wife living in an Italian community, Helen began setting words on paper, and her first novel was published in 1975. An animal lover, she says her terrier and Persian cat regard her study as much theirs as hers.
Look out for An Ideal Marriage by Helen Bianchin, available in September.
When Gabbi married Benedict, it was celebrated as the wedding of the decade! Is theirs the perfect marriage? They are rich, successful, and share an intense passion. All that’s missing is a baby—and true love?
Desert Mistress
Helen Bianchin
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
KRISTI put the finishing touches to her make-up, then stood back from the mirror to scrutinise her reflected image. An. image she had deliberately orchestrated to attract one man’s attention. That it would undoubtedly gain the interest of many men was immaterial.
The dress she’d chosen was fashioned in indigo raw silk; its deceptively simple cut emphasised her generously moulded breasts and narrow waist, and provided a tantalising glimpse of silk-clad thigh. Elegant high-heeled shoes completed the outfit.
Dark auburn hair fell to her shoulders in a cascade of natural curls, and cosmetic artistry highlighted wide-spaced, topaz-flecked hazel eyes, accented a delicate facial bone structure and defined a sensuously curved mouth. Jewellery was kept to a minimum—a slim-line gold watch, bracelet and earstuds.
Satisfied, Kristi caught up her evening coat, collected her purse and exited the hotel suite.
Downstairs the doorman hailed her a taxi with one imperious sweep of his hand, and once seated she gave the driver a Knightsbridge address, then sank back in contemplative silence as the vehicle eased into the flow of traffic.
The decision to travel to London had been her own, despite advice from government officials in both Australia and England that there was little to be gained in the shift of location. ‘Wait,’ she’d been cautioned, ‘and allow them to do their job.’
Except she’d become tired of waiting, tired of hearing different voices intoning the same words endlessly day after day. She wanted action. Action that Sheikh Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed might be able to generate, given that his assistance with delicate negotiations in a similar situation more than a year ago had resulted in the successful release of a hostage.
The slim hope that she might be able to persuade him to use his influence to set her brother free had been sufficient for her to book the next available flight to London and arrange accommodation.
Yet in the two weeks since her arrival Kristi’s telephone calls had been politely fielded, her faxes ignored. Even baldly turning up at his suite of offices had met with failure. The man was virtually inaccessible, his privacy guarded from unwanted intrusion.
Kristi’s long-standing friendship with Georgina Harrington, the daughter of a foreign diplomat, with whom she’d attended boarding-school, provided the opportunity to meet the Sheikh on a social level. There could be no doubt that without Sir Alexander Harrington’s help she would never have gained an invitation to tonight’s soirée.
The decision to replace Georgina with Kristi as Sir Alexander’s partner had been instigated by a telephone call to the Sheikh’s secretary, and had been closely followed by a fax notifying him that Georgina had fallen prey to a virulent virus and would not be able to attend. It had gone on to ask if there would be any objection to Kristi Dalton, aged twenty-seven, a friend of long-standing, taking Georgina’s place. Details for security purposes were supplied. Acknowledgement together with an acceptance had been faxed through the following day.
The taxi cruised through the streets, the glisten of recent rain sparkling beneath the headlights. London in winter was vastly different from the Southern hemispheric temperatures of Australia, and for a moment she thought longingly of bright sunshine, blue skies and the sandy beaches gracing Queensland’s tropical coast.
It didn’t take long to reach Sir Alexander’s elegant, three-storeyed apartment, and within minutes of paying off the taxi she was drawn into the lounge and handed a glass containing an innocuous mix of lime, lemonade and bitters.
‘Ravishing, darling,’ Georgina accorded with genuine admiration for Kristi’s appearance—a compliment which was endorsed by Sir Alexander.
‘Thank you,’ Kristi acknowledged with a slightly abstracted smile.
So much rested on the next few hours. In her mind she had rehearsed precisely how she would act, what she would say, until the imagery almost assumed reality. There could be no room for failure.
‘I’ve instructed Ralph to have the car out front at five-thirty,’ Sir Alexander informed her. ‘When you have finished your drink, my dear, we will leave.’
Kristi felt the knot of tension tighten in her stomach, and she attempted to disguise her apprehension as Georgina gave her a swift hug.
‘Good luck. I’ll ring you tomorrow and we’ll get together for lunch.’
Sir Alexander’s car was an aged Rolls, the man behind the wheel a valued servant who had been with the Harrington family for so many years that employer and employee had given up trying to remember the number.
‘The traffic is light, sir,’ Ralph intoned as he eased the large vehicle forward. ‘I estimate we will reach the Sheikh’s Berkshire manor in an hour.’
It took precisely three minutes less, Kristi noted as they slowed to a halt before a massive set of wrought-iron gates flanked by two security guards.
Ralph supplied their invitation and sufficient proof of identity, then, as the gates swung open, he eased the Rolls towards the main entrance where they were greeted by yet another guard.
‘Miss Dalton. Sir Harrington. Good evening.’
To the inexperienced eye he appeared to be one of the hired help. Given the evening’s occasion, there was a valid reason for the mobile phone held in one hand. Yet the compilation of information that Kristi had accumulated about his employer left her in little doubt that there was a regulation shoulder-holster beneath his suit jacket, his expertise in the field of martial arts and marksmanship a foregone conclusion.
A butler stood inside the heavily panelled front door, and Kristi relinquished her coat to him before being led at Sir Alexander’s side by a delegated hostess to join fellow guests in a room that could only have been described as sumptuous.
Gilt-framed mirrors and original works of art graced silk-covered walls, and it would have been sacrilege to suggest that the furniture was other than French antique. Multi-faceted prisms of light were reflected from three exquisite crystal chandeliers.
‘I’ll have one of the waiters bring you something to drink. If you’ll excuse me?’
An elaborate buffet was presented for personal selection, and there were several uniformed waitresses circling the room, carrying trays laden with gourmet hors d’oeuvres.
Muted background music was barely distinguishable beneath the sound of chattering voices, and Kristi’s smile was polite as Sir Alexander performed an introduction to the wife of an English earl who had recently presented her husband with a long-awaited son.
Kristi scanned the room idly, observing fellow guests with fleeting interest. Black dinner suit, crisp white cotton shirt and black bow-tie were de rigueur for the men, and her experienced eye detected a number of women wearing designer gowns whose hair and make-up bore evidence of professional artistry.
Her gaze slid to a halt, arrested by a man whose imposing height and stature set him apart from everyone else in the room.
Sheikh Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed.
Newspaper photographs and coloured prints in the pages of glossy magazines didn’t do him justice, for in the flesh he exuded an animal sense of power—a physical magnetism that was riveting.
An assemblage of finely honed muscle accented a broad bone structure, and his facial features bore the sculpted prominence of inherited genes. Dark, well-groomed hair and olive skin proclaimed the stamp of his paternal lineage.
Information regarding his background gleaned from press releases depicted him as the son of an Arabian prince and an English mother—a woman who, it was said, had agreed to an Islamic wedding ceremony which had never been formalised outside Saudi Arabia, and after a brief sojourn in her husband’s palace had fled back to England where she’d steadfastly refused, despite giving birth to a much coveted son, to return to a country where women were subservient to men and took second place to an existing wife.
Yet the love affair between the Prince and his English wife had continued to flourish during his many visits to London, until her untimely death, whereupon the ten-year-old Shalef had been removed from England by his father and introduced to his Arabian heritage.
Now in his late thirties, Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed had won himself international respect among his peers for his entrepreneurial skills, and in the years since his father’s demise his name had become synonymous with immense wealth.
A man no sensible person would want as an enemy, Kristi perceived wryly. Attired in a a superbly cut evening suit, there was an elemental ruthlessness beneath his sophisticated façade.
As if some acute sense alerted him to her scrutiny, he lifted his head, and for a few timeless seconds his eyes locked with hers.
The room and its occupants seemed to fade to the periphery of her vision as she suffered his raking appraisal, and she was unable to control the slow heat coursing through her veins. Intense awareness vibrated from every nerve cell, lifting the fine body hairs on the surface of her skin.
No man of her acquaintance had made her feel so acutely vulnerable, and she found the sensation disconcerting. Had it been any other man, she would have displayed no interest and openly challenged his veiled evaluation. With Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed she couldn’t allow herself the luxury of doing so.
For one split second she glimpsed lurking cynicism in his expression, then his attention was diverted by a man who greeted him with the earnest deference of the emotionally insecure.
The study of body language had been an integral part of her training as a photographer, inasmuch as she’d consciously chosen to emphasise the positive rather than the negative in the posed, still shots that had provided her bread and butter in the early days of her career in her parents’ Double Bay photographic studio.
Kristi’s gaze lingered, her interest entirely professional. Or so she told herself as she observed the slant of Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed’s head, the movement of his sensually moulded mouth as he engaged in polite conversation, the piercing directness of his gaze. To the unwary he appeared totally relaxed, yet there was tensile steel apparent in his stance, a silent strength that was entirely primitive. And infinitely dangerous.
A feather of fear pricked the base of her neck and slithered slowly down the length of her spine. As an enemy he would be lethal.
‘Kristi.’
She turned at the sound of her name and gave Sir Alexander a warm smile.
‘Allow me to introduce Annabel and Lance Shrewsbury.’ His voice was so incredibly polite that Kristi’s eyes held momentary mischief before it was quickly masked. ‘Kristi Dalton, a valued friend from Australia.’
‘Australia!’ Annabel exclaimed in a voice that diminished the country to a position of geographical obscurity. ‘I’m fascinated. Do you live on a farm out there?’
‘Sydney,’ Kristi enlightened her politely. ‘A city with a population in excess of five million.’ She shouldn’t have resorted to wry humour, she knew, but she couldn’t help adding, ‘The large farms are called stations, each comprising millions of acres.’
The woman’s eyes widened slightly. ‘Good heavens. Millions?’
‘Indeed,’ Kristi responded solemnly. ‘A plane or helicopter is used to check boundary fences and monitor stock.’
Annabel suppressed a faint shudder. ‘All that red dirt, the heat, and the snakes. My dear, I couldn’t live there.’ Red-tipped fingers fluttered in an aimless gesture, matching in colour the red-glossed mouth, and in perfection the expensive orthodontic work, and the considerable skill of cosmetic surgery.
Thirty, going on forty-five, married to a wealthy member of the aristocracy, and born to shop, Kristi summarised, endeavouring not to be uncharitable.
‘Sir Alexander.’
Awareness arrowed through her body at the sound of that smooth, well-educated drawl, and she turned slowly to greet their host.
His shirt was of the finest cotton, his dinner suit immaculately tailored to fit his broad frame, and this close she could sense the clean smell of soap mingling with the exclusive tones of his cologne.
Unbidden, her eyes were drawn to his mouth, and she briefly examined its curve and texture, stifling the involuntary query as to what it would be like to have that mouth possess her own. Heaven and hell, a silent voice taunted, dependent on his mood. There was a hint of cruelty apparent, a ruthlessness that both threatened and enticed. A man who held an undeniable attraction for women, she perceived, yet willing to be tamed by very few.
It was almost as if he was able to read her thoughts, for she glimpsed musing mockery in those slate-grey eyes—a colour that was in direct defiance of nature’s genetics, and the only visible feature that gave evidence of his maternal ancestry.
‘Miss Dalton.’
‘Sheikh bin Al-Sayed,’ Kristi acknowledged formally, aware that his gaze rested fractionally long on her hair before lowering to conduct a leisurely appraisal of her features.
It was crazy to feel intensely conscious of every single breath, every beat of her pulse. Silent anger lent her eyes a fiery sparkle, and it took considerable effort to mask it. An effort made all the more difficult as she glimpsed his amusement before he turned his attention to Sir Alexander.
‘Georgina is unwell, I understand?’
‘She asks me to convey her apologies,’ Sir Alexander offered. ‘She is most disappointed not to be able to attend this evening.’
Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed inclined his head. ‘It is to be hoped she recovers soon: He moved forward to speak to a woman who showed no reticence in greeting him with obvious affection.
‘Would you care for another drink?’
Kristi felt as if she’d been running a marathon, and she forced herself to breathe evenly as everything in the room slid into focus. The unobtrusive presence of the waiter was a welcome distraction, and she placed her empty glass on the tray. ‘Mineral water, no ice.’ She didn’t need the complication of a mind dulled by the effects of alcohol.
‘Would you like me to get you something to eat, my dear?’ Sir Alexander queried. ‘Several of the guests seem to be converging on the buffet.’
Kristi summoned a warm smile as she linked her hand through his arm. ‘Shall we join them? I’m feeling quite hungry.’ It was a downright lie, but Sir Alexander wasn’t to know that.
There was so much to choose from, she decided minutes later: hot and cold dishes, salads, hot vegetables, delicate slices of smoked salmon, seafood, chicken, turkey, roast lamb, slender cuts of beef. The selection of desserts would have put any of the finest London restaurants to shame, and the delicate ice sculptures were a visual confirmation of the chef’s artistic skill.
Kristi took two slices of smoked salmon, added a small serving of three different salads, a scoop of caviare, then drifted to one side of the room.
How many guests were present tonight? she pondered idly. Fifty, possibly more? It was impossible to attempt a counting of heads, so she didn’t even try.
Sir Alexander appeared to have been trapped by a society matron who seemed intent on discussing something of great importance, given the intensity of her expression.
‘All alone, chérie? Such a crime.’
The accent was unmistakably French, and she moved slightly to allow her view to encompass the tall frame of a man whose smiling features bore a tinge of practised mockery.
‘You will permit me to share a few minutes with you as we eat?’
She effected a faint shrug. ‘Why not? We’re fellow guests.’
‘You are someone I would like to get to know—very well.’ The pause was calculated, the delicate emphasis unmistakable.
Kristi’s French was flawless, thanks to a degree in Italian and French, her knowledge and accent honed by a year spent in each country. ‘I am selective when it comes to choosing a friend—or a lover, monsieur.’ Her smile was singularly sweet. ‘It is, perhaps, unfortunate that I do not intend to remain in London long enough to devote time to acquiring one or the other.’
‘I travel extensively. We could easily meet.’
His persistence amused her. ‘I think not.’
‘You do not know who I am?’
‘That is impossible, as we have yet to be introduced,’ she managed lightly. Perhaps she presented a challenge.
‘Enchanté, chérie.’ His eyes gleamed darkly as he reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Jean-Claude Longchamp d’Elseve.’ He paused, head tilted slightly as he waited for an expected reaction. When she failed to comply, his mouth assumed a quizzical slant. ‘I cannot believe you lack the knowledge or the intelligence to be aware of the importance my family hold in France.’
‘Really?’
He was an amusing diversion, and he was sufficiently astute to appreciate it. ‘I am quite serious.’
‘So am I, Jean-Claude,’ she declared solemnly.
‘You make no attempt to acquaint me with your name. Does this mean I am to be rejected?’ The musing gleam in his eyes belied the wounded tone.
‘Do you not handle rejection well?’
His mouth parted in subdued laughter. ‘I am so rarely in such a position, it is something of a novelty.’
‘I’m relieved. I would hate to provide you with an emotional scar.’
He still held her hand, and his thumb traced a light pattern over the veins of her wrist. ‘Perhaps we could begin again. Will you have dinner with me?’
‘The answer is still the same.’
‘It will be relatively easy for me to discover where you are staying.’
‘Please don’t,’ Kristi advised seriously.
‘Why not?’ His shrug was eloquent. ‘Am I such objectionable company?’
She pulled her hand free. ‘Not at all.’ She cast him a slight smile. ‘I simply have a tight business schedule and a full social calendar.’
The edge of his mouth curved in pensive humour. ‘You mean to leave me to another woman’s mercy?’
In different circumstances he might have proved to be an amusing companion. ‘I’m sure you can cope.’
His eyes gleamed with hidden warmth. ‘Perhaps. Although I may choose not to.’
‘Your prerogative,’ she accorded lightly. ‘If you’ll excuse me? I should rejoin Sir Alexander.’
Jean-Claude inclined his head and offered a teasing smile. ‘Au revoir, chérie.’
Her food had remained almost untouched, and she handed the plate to a passing waitress, her appetite gone.
Sir Alexander wasn’t difficult to find, although he appeared deep in conversation with a distinguished-looking guest and she was loath to interrupt them.
‘Champagne?’
Kristi cast the waitress and the tray she carried a fleeting glance. Perhaps she should have a glass to diffuse her nervous tension. Even as the thought occurred, she dismissed it. Coffee, strong black and sweet was what she needed, and she voiced the request, then made her way to the end of the buffet table where a uniformed maid was offering a variety of hot beverages.
Declining milk, she moved to one side and sipped the potent brew. The blend was probably excellent, but she hardly noticed as she steeled herself to instigate a planned action.
Seconds later her cup lay on the carpet, and the scalding liquid seared her midriff. The pain was intense—far more so than she’d anticipated.
‘Oh, my dear, how unfortunate. Are you all right?’ The voiced concern brought attention, and within minutes she was being led from the room by the hostess who had greeted them on arrival.
‘We keep the first-aid equipment in a bathroom next to the kitchen.’ The hostess’s voice was calm as she drew Kristi down a wide hallway and into a room that was clinically functional. ‘If you’ll remove your dress I’ll apply a cold compress to cool the skin.’
Kristi complied, adding a sodden half-slip to the heap of ruined silk, then stood silently as the hostess efficiently dealt with the burn, applied salve, then covered the area with a sterile dressing.
‘I’ll organise a robe and have someone take care of your dress.’
Minutes later Kristi willed the hostess a speedy return, for despite central heating the room was cool, and a lacy bra and matching wispy bikini briefs were hardly adequate covering.
A frown creased her forehead, and she unconsciously gnawed at her lower lip, uneasy now that she had implemented her plan. There was a very slim chance that Sheikh bin Al-Sayed would check on her himself. Yet she was a guest in his home, and courtesy alone should ensure that he enquired as to her welfare—surely?
Her scalded flesh stung abominably, despite the hostess’s ministrations. A wide, raised welt of red skin encompassed much of her midriff and tapered off in the region of her stomach. Even she had been surprised that one cup of hot liquid was capable of covering such an area.
A sound alerted Kristi’s attention an instant before the door swung inwards. Her eyes widened measurably as Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed stood momentarily in its aperture.
He held a white towelling robe, his features schooled into a fathomless mask, and she shivered, unable to control the slither of apprehension as he moved into the room and closed the door.
Its soft clunking sound was somehow significant, and her hands moved instinctively to cover her breasts.
‘I suggest you put this on. It would be unfortunate to compound your accident with a chill.’
The room suddenly seemed much smaller, his height and breadth narrowing its confines to a degree where she felt stifled and painfully aware of the scarcity of her attire.
Reaching forward, she took the robe and quickly pushed her arms into the sleeves, then firmly belted the ties, only to wince and ease the knot. ‘Thank you.’
‘Rochelle assures me the burn, while undoubtedly painful, is not serious enough to warrant professional medical attention. Your gown is silk and may not fare well when cleaned. Replace it and send me the bill.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Kristi said stiffly.
‘I insist.’ His gaze was startlingly direct, and difficult for her to hold.
‘It was a simple accident, and the responsibility is entirely mine,’ she declared, hating her body’s reaction to his presence. It had been bad enough in a room full of people. Alone with him, it was much worse.
His eyes narrowed. ‘You decline the replacement of an expensive dress?’
‘I don’t seek an argument with you.’
With easy economy of movement he slid one hand into a trouser pocket—an action which parted the superbly tailored dinner jacket and displayed an expanse of snowy white cotton shirt, beneath which it was all too easy to imagine a taut midriff and steel-muscled chest liberally sprinkled with dark, springy hair.
‘What precisely is it that you do seek, Miss Dalton?’ The words were a quizzical drawl laced with cynicism.
There was an implication, thinly veiled, that succeeded in tightening the muscles supporting her spine. It also lifted her chin and brought a brightness to her eyes.
His smile was totally lacking in humour. ‘All evening I have been intrigued by the method you would choose to attract my attention.’ His mouth assumed a mocking slant. ‘No scenario I envisaged included a self-infliction of injury.’
CHAPTER TWO
KRISTI felt the color drain from her face. ‘How dare you suggest—?’
‘Save your breath, Miss Dalton. An investigation fell into place immediately after your second phone call to my office,’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed informed her with deadly softness. His gaze never left her features as he listed the schools she’d attended, her educational achievements, her parents’ names and the cause of their accidental death, her address, occupation, and a concise compilation of her inherited assets. ‘Your visit to London was precipitated by a desire to accelerate the release of your brother, Shane, who is currently being held hostage in a remote mountain area,’ he concluded in the same silky tones.
Anger surged through her veins, firing a helpless fury. ‘You knew why I was trying to contact you, yet you denied me the courtesy of accepting one of my calls?’
‘There seemed little point. I cannot help you, Miss Dalton.’
The words held a finality that Kristi refused to accept. ‘Shane was unfortunate to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—’
‘Your brother is a professional news photographer who ignored advice and flouted legal sanction in order to enter a forbidden area,’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed declared hardly. ‘He was kidnapped by an opposing faction and taken beyond reach of local authorities, who would surely have instigated his arrest and incarcerated him in prison.’
‘You consider his fate is better with a band of political dissidents?’
His mouth curved into a mere facsimile of a smile. ‘That is debatable, Miss Dalton.’
Concern widened her eyes and robbed her features of their colour. The image of her brother being held captive kept her awake nights; then, when she did manage to sleep, her mind was invaded by nightmares. ‘I implore you—’
‘You beg very prettily,’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed taunted mercilessly, and in that moment she truly hated him. ‘However, I suggest you direct all your enquiries through the appropriate channels. Such negotiations take time and require the utmost delicacy. And patience,’ he added with slight emphasis. ‘On the part of the hostage’s family.’
‘You could help get him out,’ she declared in impassioned entreaty.
His gaze speared through her body and lanced her very soul, freezing her into speechlessness. There was scarcely a sound in the room, only the whisper of her breathing and she couldn’t have looked away from him if she’d tried.
‘We are close to the twenty-first century, Miss Dalton,’ he drawled. ‘You did not imagine I would don a thobe and gutra, mount an Arab steed and ride into the desert on a rescue mission with men following on horseback, taking water and food from conveniently placed oases along the way?’
Kristi ignored his sardonic cynicism, although it cost her considerable effort not to launch a verbal attack. ‘I have a sizeable trust fund which is easily accessed,’ she assured him with determined resolve, grateful in this instance for inherited wealth. ‘Sufficient to cover the cost of hiring Jeeps, men, a helicopter if necessary.’
‘No.’
The single negation sparked a feeling of desperation. She held one ace up her sleeve, but this wasn’t the moment to play it. ‘You refuse to help me?’
‘Go home, Miss Dalton.’ His expression was harsh, and his voice sounded as cold as if it had come direct from the North Pole. ‘Go back to Australia and let the governments sort out the unfortunate incident.’
She wanted to hit him, to lash out physically and berate him for acting like an unfeeling monster.
He knew, and for one fraction of a second his eyes flared, almost as if in anticipation of her action—and the certain knowledge of how he would deal with it. Then the moment was gone, and it had been so swift, so fleeting that she wondered if it hadn’t been a figment of her imagination.
‘You will have to excuse me. I have a party to host,’ he imparted with smooth detachment. ‘Rochelle will bring you something suitable to wear. Should you wish to return to your hotel, it will be arranged for a driver to transport you there. Otherwise, I can only suggest that you attempt to enjoy the rest of the evening.’
‘Please.’ Her voice broke with emotional intensity.
His eyes flayed every layer of protective clothing, burning skin, tissue, seeming to spear through to her very soul. With deliberate slowness he appraised her slender figure, resting over-long on the curve of her breasts, the apex between her thighs, before sweeping up to settle on the soft fullness of her mouth. ‘There is nothing you can offer me as a suitable enticement.’
Anger brightened her eyes, and pride kept her head high. ‘You insult my intelligence, Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed. I was appealing for your compassion. Sex was never a consideration.’
‘You are a woman, Miss Dalton. Sex is always a consideration.’
A soft tinge of pink coloured her cheeks as she strove to keep a rein on her temper. She drew a deep, ragged breath, then released it slowly. ‘Not even for my brother would I use my body as a bartering tool.’
His eyes narrowed with cynical amusement. ‘No?’
She was sorely tempted to yell at him, but that would only have fuelled his amusement. ‘No.’ The word was quietly voiced and carried far more impact than if she’d resorted to angry vehemence.
He turned towards the door, and the blood seemed to roar in her ears, then she felt it slowly drain, leaving her disoriented and dangerously lightheaded for an instant before she managed to gather some measure of control.
‘What would it take for you to make a personal appeal to Mehmet Hassan on my behalf?’ The words were singularly distinct, each spoken quietly, but they caused Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed to pause, then turn slowly to face her.
His features were assembled into an inscrutable mask, and his eyes held a wariness that was chilling.
‘Who precisely is Mehmet Hassan?’ The voice was dangerously quiet, the silky tones deceptive, for she sensed a finely honed anger beneath their surface.
She felt trapped by the intentness of those incredible eyes, much like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car, and she took a deep, shuddering breath, then released it slowly. ‘You attended the same school and established a friendship which exists to this day, despite Mehmet Hassan’s little-known link with political dissident leaders.’
Dark lashes lowered, successfully hooding his gaze. ‘I know a great many people, Miss Dalton,’ he drawled, ‘some of whom I number as friends.’
She had his attention. She dared not lose it.
‘You travel to Riyadh several times a year on business, occasionally extending your stay to venture into the desert with a hunting party to escape from the rigours of the international corporate world. You never go alone, and it has been whispered that Mehmet Hassan has been your guest on a number of occasions.’
He was silent for what seemed to be several minutes but could only have been seconds. ‘Whispers, like grains of sand, are swept far by the desert winds and retain no substance.’
‘You deny your friendship with Mehmet Hassan?’
His expression hardened, his eyes resembling obsidian. ‘What is the purpose of this question?’
Steady, an inner voice cautioned. ‘I want you to take me with you to Riyadh.’
‘Entry into Saudi Arabia requires a sponsor.’
‘Something you could arrange without any effort.’
‘If I was so inclined.’
‘I suggest you are inclined,’ Kristi said carefully.
Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed’s appraisal was all-encompassing as it slowly raked her slim frame. ‘You would dare to threaten me?’ he queried with dangerous softness, and she shivered inwardly at the ominous, almost lethal quality apparent in his stance.
‘I imagine the media would be intensely interested to learn of the link between Sheikh Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed and Mehmet Hassan,’ she opined quietly. ‘Questions would undoubtedly be raised, public opinion swayed, and at the very least it would cause you embarrassment.’
‘There is a very high price to pay for attempted blackmail, Miss Dalton.’
She pulled the figurative ace and played it. ‘I am applying the rudiments of successful business practice. A favour in exchange for information withheld. My terms, Sheikh bin Al-Sayed, are unrestricted entry into Riyadh under your sponsorship. For my own protection, it is necessary for me to be a guest in your home. By whichever means you choose you will make contact with Mehmet Hassan and request his help in negotiating for my brother’s release. In return, I will meet whatever expenses are incurred.’ Her eyes never wavered from his. ‘And pledge my silence.’
‘I could disavow any knowledge of this man you call Mehmet Hassan.’
‘I would know you lie.’
If he could have killed her, he would have done so. It was there in his eyes, the flexing of a taut muscle at the edge of his cheek. ‘What you ask is impossible.’
A faint smile lifted the comer of her mouth. ‘Difficult, but not impossible.’
The sound of a discreet knock at the door, and seconds later Rochelle entered the room with a swathe of black draped over her arm.
‘Perhaps we can arrange to further this discussion at a more opportune time?’ Kristi offered with contrived politeness. ‘It would be impolite to neglect your guests for much longer.’
Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed inclined his head. ‘Indeed. Shall we say dinner tomorrow evening? I will send a car to your hotel at six.’
A tiny thrill of exhilaration spiralled through her body. ‘Thank you.’
His eyes were hooded and his smile was barely evident. ‘I shall leave you with Rochelle,’ he declared formally, then, with a dismissing gesture, he moved into the passageway and closed the door behind him.
‘I think these should be adequate,’ Rochelle indicated as she held out the evening trousers and an elegant beaded top.
They were superb, the style emphasising Kristi’s slender frame and highlighting the delicate fragility of her features.
‘Do you feel ready to rejoin the party? Sir Alexander Harrington has expressed anxiety as to your welfare.’
‘Thank you.’
It really was a splendid gathering, Kristi acknowledged silently some time later as she sipped an innocuous fruit punch. She had attended many social events in the past ten years in numerous capital cities around the world, with guests almost as impressive as these, in prestigious homes that were equally opulent as this one. Yet none had proved to be quite as nerve-racking.
Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed was not a man to suffer fools gladly. And deep inside she couldn’t discount the fact that she was indeed being foolish in attempting to best him. Twice in the past hour she had allowed her gaze to scan the room casually, unconsciously seeking the autocratic features of her host among the many guests.
Even when relaxed he had an inherent ruthlessness that she found vaguely disturbing. Yet familial loyalty overrode the need for rational thought, and she dampened down a feeling of apprehension at the prospect of sharing dinner with him the following evening.
A strange prickling sensation began at the back of her neck, and some inner force made her seek its source, her gaze seeming to home in on the man who silently commanded her attention.
Dark eyes seared her own, and the breath caught in her throat for a few long seconds as she suffered his silent annihilation, then she raised one eyebrow and slanted him a polite smile before deliberately turning towards Sir Alexander.
‘Would you like to leave, my dear?’
Kristi offered him a bemused look, and glimpsed his concern. ‘It is getting late,’ she agreed, moving to his side as they began circling the room to where their host stood listening to an earnest-looking couple conducting what appeared to be an in-depth conversation.
‘Sir Alexander, Miss Dalton.’ The voice was pleasant, the tone polite.
‘It has been a most enjoyable evening,’ Sir Alexander said cordially, while Kristi opted to remain silent.
‘It is to be hoped the effects of your accident will be minimal, Miss Dalton,’ Shalef drawled, and she responded with marked civility,
‘Thank you, Sheikh bin Al-Sayed, for the borrowed clothes. I shall have them cleaned and returned to you.’
He merely inclined his head in acknowledgement, and Kristi found herself mentally counting each step that led from the lounge.
As they reached the foyer, instruction was given for the Rolls to be brought around. Within minutes they were both seated in the rear and Ralph began easing the vehicle down the long, curving driveway.
‘I trust you were successful, my dear?’
Kristi turned towards Sir Alexander with a faint smile. ‘To a degree, although he was aware of the deliberate orchestration. We’re to dine together tomorrow evening.’
‘Be careful,’ he bade her seriously. ‘Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed is not someone with whom I would choose to cross words.’
A chill finger feathered its way down her spine. A warning? ‘Shane’s welfare is too important for me to back down now.’
A hand covered hers briefly in conciliation. ‘I understand. However, as a precaution, I would suggest you keep me abreast of any developments. I feel a certain degree of responsibility.’
‘Of course.’
It was after midnight when Ralph slid the Rolls to a halt outside the main entrance to her hotel, and an hour later she lay gazing sightlessly at the darkened ceiling, unable to sleep. There was still a slight rush of adrenalin firing her brain, a feeling of victory mixed with anxiety that prevented the ability to relax. Would Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed present a very clever argument in opposition to her bid to have him take her to Riyadh? Call her bluff regarding her threat to inform the media of his friendship with Mehmet Hassan? She had seventeen hours to wait before she found out.
Kristi stepped out of the lift at precisely five minutes to six and made her way to the foyer. It was raining heavily outside, the sky almost black, and the wind howled along the space between tall buildings and up narrow alleyways with a ferocity of sound that found its way inside each time the main entrance doors swung open.
An omen? It wasn’t a night one would have chosen to venture out in, not if a modicum of common sense was involved. The occasional blast of cold air penetrated the warmth of the central heating like icy fingers reaching in to pluck out the unwary.
Kristi drew the edges of her coat together, adjusted the long woollen scarf, then plunged her hands into her capacious pockets.
Where would they dine? There was an excellent restaurant in the hotel. She would feel infinitely safer if they remained in familiar surroundings.
She watched as a black Bentley swept in beneath the portico. The driver emerged, spoke briefly to the attendant, then strode indoors to receive the concierge’s attention, who, after listening intently, gave an indicative nod in Kristi’s direction.
Intrigued, she waited for him to reach her.
‘Miss Dalton?’ He produced ID and waited patiently while she scrutinised it. ‘Sheikh bin Al-Sayed has instructed me to drive you to his home in Berkshire.’
Her stomach performed a backward flip, then settled with an uneasy fluttering of nerves. His territory, when she’d hoped for the relative safety of a restaurant in which to conduct negotiations.
The success of her ploy rested on one single fact: information that was known to only a privileged few. Her source had extracted a vow of secrecy—a promise she intended to honour despite any threat Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed could throw at her.
The large vehicle escaped the city’s outskirts, gathered speed, its passage becoming much too swift for Kristi’s peace of mind.
It was stupid to feel so nervous, she rationalised as the Bentley slid between the heavy wrought-iron gates and progressed up the curved drive. Insane to feel afraid when the house was staffed with a complement of servants. Yet she was consumed with a measure of both when the door opened and Rochelle ushered her inside.
‘May I take your coat?’ With it folded across one arm, she indicated a door to her right. ‘Come through to the lounge.’
The room was measurably smaller than the large, formal lounge used for last night’s party, Kristi observed as she followed Rochelle’s gesture and sank down into one of the several deep-seated sofas.
‘Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Orange juice? Tea or coffee?’
Hot, fragrant tea sounded wonderful, and she said as much, accepting the steaming cup minutes later.
‘If you’ll excuse me?’ Rochelle queried. ‘Sheikh bin Al-Sayed will join you shortly.’
Was it a deliberate tactic on his part to keep her waiting? In all probability, Kristi conceded as she sipped the excellent brew.
He had a reputation as a powerful strategist, a man who hired and fired without hesitation in his quest for dedication and commitment from his employees. The pursuit of excellence in all things, at any cost. Wasn’t that the consensus of everything she’d managed to learn about him? Admires enterprise, respects equals and dismisses fools.
But what of the man behind the image? Had the contrast between two vastly different cultures caused a conflict of interest and generated a recentment that he didn’t totally belong to either? Little was known of his personal life as a child, whether his mother favoured a strict British upbringing or willingly allowed him knowledge of his father’s religion and customs.
If there had been any problems, it would appear that he’d dealt with and conquered them, Kristi reflected as she replaced the cup down on its saucer.
‘Miss Dalton.’
She gave a start of surprise at the sound of his voice. His entry into the room had been as silent as that of a cat.
‘Sheikh bin Al-Sayed,’ she acknowledged with a calmness that she was far from feeling. If she’d still been holding the cup it would have rattled as it touched the saucer.
‘My apologies for keeping you waiting.’
He didn’t offer a reason, and she didn’t feel impelled to ask for one. Her eyes were cool and distant as they met his, her features assembled into a mask of deliberate politeness.
‘You’ve finished your tea. Would you care for some more?’
The tailored black trousers and white chambray shirt highlighted his powerful frame—attire that verged on the informal, and a direct contrast to the evening suit of last night.
It made her feel overdressed, her suit too blatant a statement with its dramatic red figure-hugging skirt and fitted jacket. Sheer black hose and black stilettos merely added emphasis.
‘No. Thank you,’ she added as she sank back against the cushions in a determined bid to match his detachment.
‘I trust the burn no longer causes you discomfort?’
The skin was still inflamed and slightly tender, but there was no sign of blistering. ‘It’s fine.’
He accepted her assurance without comment. ‘Dinner will be served in half an hour.’
‘You do intend to feed me.’ The words emerged with a tinge of mockery, and she saw one of his eyebrows slant in a gesture of cynicism.
‘I clearly specified dinner.’
Kristi forced herself to conduct a silent study of his features, observing the broad, powerfully defined cheekbones and the sensual shaping of his mouth. Dark slate-grey eyes possessed an almost predatory alertness, and she couldn’t help wondering if they could display any real tenderness.
A woman would have to be very special to penetrate his self-imposed armour. Did he ever let down his guard, or derive enjoyment from the simple pleasures in life? In the boardroom he was regarded as an icon. And in the bedroom? There could be little doubt that he would possess the technique to drive a woman wild, but did he ever care enough to become emotionally involved? Was he, in turn, driven mad with passion? Or did he choose to distance himself?
It was something she would never know, Kristi decided with innate honesty. Something she never wanted to know.
‘Shall we define what arrangements need to be made?’ It was a bold beginning, especially when she felt anything but bold.
One eyebrow rose in a dark curve. ‘We have the evening, Miss Dalton. An initial exchange of pleasantries would not be untoward, surely?’ It was a statement, politely voiced, but there was steel beneath the silk. A fact she chose to heed—in part.
‘Do you usually advocate wasting time during a business meeting?’ Kristi proffered civilly.
‘I conduct business in my office.’
‘And entertain in your home?’
‘Our discussion contains a politically delicate element which would be best not overheard by fellow diners, don’t you agree?’ he drawled, noting the tight clasp of her fingers as she laced her hands together.
She drew a deep breath and deliberately tempered its release. ‘We are alone now.’
His smile held no pretension to humour. ‘I suggest you contain your impatience until after dinner.’
It took a tremendous effort to contain her anger. ‘If you insist.’
He registered the set of her shoulders as she unconsciously squared them, the almost prim placing of one silk-encased ankle over the other. ‘Why not enjoy a light wine? Diluted, if you choose, with soda water.’
It might help her relax. She needed to, desperately. ‘Thank you. Three-quarters soda.’
Why couldn’t he be older, and less masculine? Less forceful, with little evidence of a raw virility that played havoc with her nervous system? Last night he had dominated a room filled with guests and succeeded in diminishing her defences. A fact she’d put down to circumstance and acute anxiety. Yet tonight she was aware that nothing had changed.
His very presence was unnerving, and she consciously fought against his physical magnetism as she accepted the glass from his hand.
‘You are a photographer,’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed stated as he took a comfortable chair opposite. His movements were fluid, lithe, akin to those of a large cat. ‘Did you chose to follow in your brother’s footsteps?’
Conversation. That’s all it is, she reminded herself as she took an appreciative sip of the spritzer. It was cool and crisp to the palate, pleasant.
‘Not deliberately. Shane was the older brother I adored as a child,’ Kristi explained, prey to a host of images, all of them fond. ‘Consequently I was intensely interested in everything he did. Photography became his obsession. Soon it was mine,’ she concluded simply.
‘Initially within Australia, then to various capitals throughout the world.’
‘Facts you were able to access from my dossier.’
He lifted his tumbler and took a long draught of his own drink. ‘A concise journalistic account.’ His eyes speared hers, dark and relentless beneath the slightly hooded lids. ‘Words which can’t begin to convey several of the offbeat assignments you were contracted to undertake.’
‘Photographs, even video coverage, don’t adequately express the horror of poverty, illness and famine in some Third World countries. The hopelessness that transcends anger, the acceptance of hunger. The utter helplessness one feels at being able to do so little. The impossibility of distancing yourself from the harsh reality of it all, aware that you’re only there for as long as it takes to do your job, before driving a Jeep out to the nearest airstrip and boarding a cargo shuttle that transports you back to civilisation, where you pick up your life again and attempt to pretend that what you saw, what you experienced, was just a bad dream.’
‘Until the next time.’
‘Until the next time,’ Kristi echoed.
He surveyed her thoughtfully for several long seconds. ‘You’re very good at what you do.’
She inclined her head and ventured, with a touch of mockery, ‘But you can’t understand why I failed to settle for freelancing and filling the society pages, in a photographic studio, as my parents did.’
‘The lack of challenge?’
Oh, yes. But it had been more than that—a great deal more. The photographic studio still operated, as a mark of respect for their parents, run by a competent photographer called Annie who doubled as secretary. It was an arrangement which worked very well, for it allowed Kristi freedom to pursue international assignments.
‘And a desire to become your brother’s equal.’
She digested his words, momentarily intrigued by a possibility that had never occurred to her until this man had voiced it. ‘You make it sound as if I wanted to compete against him,’ she said slowly, ‘when that was never the case.’
‘Yet you have chosen dangerous locations,’ he pursued, watching the play of emotions on her expressive features.
Her eyes assumed a depth and dimension that mirrored her inner feelings. ‘I don’t board a plane and flit off to the other side of the world every second week. Sometimes there are months in between assignments, and I spend that time working out of the studio, attending social events, taking the society shots, sharing the family-portrait circuit with Annie.’ She paused momentarily. ‘When I undertake an assignment I want my work to matter, to encapsulate on film precisely what is needed to bring the desired result.’ The passion was clearly evident in her voice, and there was a soft tinge of pink colouring her cheeks. ‘Whether that be preserving a threatened environmental area or revealing the horrors of deprivation.’
‘There are restrictions imposed on women photographers?’
It was a fact which irked her unbearably.
‘Unfortunately feminism and equality in the workforce haven’t acquired universal recognition.’
‘Have you not once considered what your fate might have been if it had been you, and not your brother, who had taken a miscalculated risk and landed in the hands of political dissidents?’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed queried with dangerous softness as he finished his drink and placed the glass down on a nearby side-table.
Topaz-gold chips glowed deep in her eyes as she subjected him to the full force of a hateful glare. A hand lifted and smoothed a drifting tendril of hair behind one ear. ‘Shane refused to allow me to accompany him.’
‘Something for which you should be eternally grateful,’ he stated hardly.
Kristi caught the slight tightening of facial muscles that transformed his features into a hard mask. Impenetrable, she observed, together with a hint of autocratic arrogance that was undoubtedly attributable to his paternal forebears, and which added an element of ruthlessness to his demeanour.
‘It would appear that, although a fool, your brother is not totally stupid.’
‘Don’t you dare—’
She halted mid-sentence as Rochelle entered the room unannounced. ‘Hilary is ready to serve dinner.’
Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed nodded briefly, and Rochelle exited as soundlessly as she had appeared.
‘You were saying?’
‘You have no reason to insult my brother,’ she asserted fiercely.
He smiled, although it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Familial loyalty can sometimes appear blind.’ He stood and moved towards her. ‘Shall we go in to dinner?’
‘Kristi tried to bank down her resentment as she vacated the chair. ‘I seem to have lost my appetite:
‘Perhaps you can attempt to find it.’
CHAPTER THREE
THE dining room was smaller than she’d imagined, although scarcely small, with its beautiful antique table and seating for eight, and a long chiffonier. Glassed cabinets housed an enviable collection of china and crystal. Expensive paintings and gilt-framed mirrors adorned the walls, and light from electric candles was reflected in an exquisite crystal chandelier. Several silver-domed covers dominated the table, with its centrepiece of exotic orchids.
Kristi slid into the chair that Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed held out for her, then he moved round to take a seat opposite.
A middle-aged woman with pleasant features busied herself removing covers from the heated platters, then indicated a choice of desserts and the cheeseboard, laid out atop the chiffonier.
With a cheerful smile, Hilary—it had to be Hilary, Kristi surmised—turned toward her employer. ‘Shall I serve the soup?’
‘Thank you, Hilary. We’ll manage.’
‘Ring when you require coffee.’
He removed the lid from a china tureen. ‘I trust you enjoy leek and potato soup, Miss Dalton?’
‘Yes.’
He took her plate and ladled out a medium portion before tending to his own. ‘Bon appetit,’ he said with a tinge of mockery, and she inclined her head in silent acknowledgement.
The soup was delicious, and followed by superb beef Wellington with an assortment of vegetables.
‘Wine?’
‘Just a little,’ Kristi agreed, motioning for him to stop when the glass was half-filled.
He ate with an economy of movement, his hands broad, with a sprinkling of dark hair, the fingers long, well formed and obviously strong. She could imagine them reining in a horse and manoeuvring the wheel of a rugged four-wheel drive. Gently drifting over the skin of a responsive woman. Hell, where did that come from? Her hand paused midway to her mouth, then she carefully returned the fork to rest on her plate. The pressure of the past few weeks, culminating over the last two days, had finally taken its toll. She was going insane. There seemed no other logical explanation for the passage of her thoughts.
‘Can I help you to some more vegetables?’
Her vision cleared, and she swallowed in an endeavour to ease the constriction in her throat. ‘No. Thank you,’ she added in a voice that sounded slightly husky.
He had eaten more quickly than she, consuming twice the amount of food.
‘Dessert?’
She settled for some fresh fruit, and followed it with a sliver of brie, observing his choice of apple crumble with cream. The man had a sweet tooth. Somehow it made him seem more human.
‘Shall we return to the lounge for coffee?’
‘Thank you,’ she returned politely, watching as he dispensed with his napkin. Kristi did likewise and then stood.
He moved to the door and opened it, ushering her into the hallway.
A host of butterfly wings began to flutter inside her stomach. The past two hours had been devoted to observing the conventions. Now it was down to business. And somehow she had to convince him that she’d use the information she held against him in order to ensure that he would enlist Mehmet Hassan’s help in freeing her brother.
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed bade her as they entered the lounge, and she watched as he pressed an electronic button beside the wall-switch. ‘Hilary will bring coffee.’
Kristi sank into the same chair she’d occupied on her arrival. ‘Sheikh bin Al-Sayed.’ Now that the moment had come, it was costing her more effort than she’d envisaged. ‘Dinner was very pleasant,’ she began. ‘But now—’
‘You want to discuss business,’ he concluded with a touch of mockery as he took the chair opposite.
‘Yes.’
He placed an elbow on each arm of the chair and steepled his fingers, assuming an enigmatic expression that she couldn’t begin to fathom. ‘The ball is in your court, Miss Dalton. I suggest you play it.’
Her eyes were steady, the tip of her chin tilting at a firm angle as she carefully put the metaphorical ball in motion. ‘When do you plan leaving for Riyadh?’
‘Next week.’
The butterfly wings increased their tempo inside her stomach. ‘With your influence I imagine that allows sufficient time to have the necessary sponsorship papers processed.’
‘Indeed.’
So far, so good. ‘Perhaps you could let me have flight details, and any relevant information I need.’
He was silent for several seconds, and the silence seemed to grow louder with each one that passed.
‘The flight details are simple, Miss Dalton. We board a commercial airline to Bahrain, then take my private jet to Riyadh.’ He regarded her with an intensity that had the butterfly wings beating a frantic tattoo. ‘Not so simple is the reason for your accompanying me.’
It seemed such a small detail. ‘Why?’
‘My father’s third wife and her two daughters live in the palace, each of whom will be wildly curious as to why I have chosen to bring a woman with me.’
Surprise widened her eyes. ‘You’re joking. Aren’t you?’ she queried doubtfully.
‘Since I can avail myself of any woman I choose,’ he drawled hatefully, ‘the fact that I have brought one with me will be viewed as having considerable significance—not only by my late father’s family, but by several of my friends.’ He smiled—a mere facsimile which held an element of pitiless disregard. ‘Tell me, Miss Dalton, would you prefer to be accepted as the woman in my life, or a—’ he paused imperceptibly ‘—transitory attraction?’
Hilary chose that moment to enter the room, wheeling a trolley bearing a silver coffee-pot, two cups and saucers, milk, cream and sugar, together with a plate of petit fours.
‘Thank you, Hilary. The meal was superb, as usual,’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed complimented her while Kristi inwardly seethed with anger. Somehow she managed to dredge up a smile and add to her host’s praise. However, the instant that Hilary disappeared out the door she launched into immediate attack.
‘What is wrong with presenting me to your family as a guest?’ she demanded heatedly.
His eyes hardened measurably, and she felt the beginnings of unease. ‘I accord Nashwa and her two daughters the respect they deserve. Whenever I visit Riyadh I observe the customs of my father’s country for the duration of my stay. As sponsor, I must vouch for your good behaviour while you are in Saudi Arabia, take responsibility for your welfare, and ensure your departure when it is time for you to leave.’
Kristi lifted a hand, then let it fall in a gesture of helpless anger. Her main consideration was Shane, and the influence that Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed could wield with Mehmet Hassan in negotiating her brother’s release.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/helen-bianchin/desert-mistress/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
HELEN BIANCHIN
FORBIDDEN!Bargain with the devil! Kristi's journalist brother was a hostage, and only one man could help: Sheikh Shalef Al-Sayed. He had power and influence at his fingertips - but how could Kristi win his support? Shalef was way out of her league. His world of wealth and privilege was closed to Kristi… .Gate-crashing his glamorous cocktail party was the only way of grabbing his attention! But Kristi got more than she bargained for. Becoming the mistress of this enigmatic, dangerously attractive man hadn't been part of her plan, yet this was the deal and Kristi had no choice. If she wanted Shalef's help, she'd have to play the game his way, and he was clearly making - and breaking - all the rules!"Helen Bianchin mixes suspense with enthralling characters into an intense reading experience." - Romantic Times on Forgotten Husband
“I want you with me.” (#uc23eef1f-f773-5fb4-97d9-0d929cfd2ee2)About the Author (#ud520f4ca-daba-5037-8f37-6581d0620ced)Title Page (#u96e6ee8c-ee5a-5718-862a-96c02ab92e82)CHAPTER ONE (#u73c776b4-25fd-51e8-8a95-5ddf2d27dab0)CHAPTER TWO (#u95199063-09da-5e05-ae8a-611cd0e58b79)CHAPTER THREE (#u83b70e35-0659-5802-99cd-5041b320b405)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“I want you with me.”
The breath caught in her throat and threatened to choke her.
“No comment, ”Kristi?” Shalef queried with a degree of mocking cynicism.
“As what?” Was that her voice? Even to her own ears it sounded impossibly husky. “Your mistress?”
“There are many advantages.”
Her eyes met his and held them. “I don’t want to be content with second best, waiting for a stolen night or two. I would rather not have you at all!”
HELEN BIANCHIN was born in New Zealand and traveled to Australia before marrying her Italian-born husband. After three years they moved, returned to New Zealand with their daughter, had two sons, then resettled in Australia. Encouraged by friends to recount anecdotes of her years as a tobacco sharefarmer’s wife living in an Italian community, Helen began setting words on paper, and her first novel was published in 1975. An animal lover, she says her terrier and Persian cat regard her study as much theirs as hers.
Look out for An Ideal Marriage by Helen Bianchin, available in September.
When Gabbi married Benedict, it was celebrated as the wedding of the decade! Is theirs the perfect marriage? They are rich, successful, and share an intense passion. All that’s missing is a baby—and true love?
Desert Mistress
Helen Bianchin
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
KRISTI put the finishing touches to her make-up, then stood back from the mirror to scrutinise her reflected image. An. image she had deliberately orchestrated to attract one man’s attention. That it would undoubtedly gain the interest of many men was immaterial.
The dress she’d chosen was fashioned in indigo raw silk; its deceptively simple cut emphasised her generously moulded breasts and narrow waist, and provided a tantalising glimpse of silk-clad thigh. Elegant high-heeled shoes completed the outfit.
Dark auburn hair fell to her shoulders in a cascade of natural curls, and cosmetic artistry highlighted wide-spaced, topaz-flecked hazel eyes, accented a delicate facial bone structure and defined a sensuously curved mouth. Jewellery was kept to a minimum—a slim-line gold watch, bracelet and earstuds.
Satisfied, Kristi caught up her evening coat, collected her purse and exited the hotel suite.
Downstairs the doorman hailed her a taxi with one imperious sweep of his hand, and once seated she gave the driver a Knightsbridge address, then sank back in contemplative silence as the vehicle eased into the flow of traffic.
The decision to travel to London had been her own, despite advice from government officials in both Australia and England that there was little to be gained in the shift of location. ‘Wait,’ she’d been cautioned, ‘and allow them to do their job.’
Except she’d become tired of waiting, tired of hearing different voices intoning the same words endlessly day after day. She wanted action. Action that Sheikh Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed might be able to generate, given that his assistance with delicate negotiations in a similar situation more than a year ago had resulted in the successful release of a hostage.
The slim hope that she might be able to persuade him to use his influence to set her brother free had been sufficient for her to book the next available flight to London and arrange accommodation.
Yet in the two weeks since her arrival Kristi’s telephone calls had been politely fielded, her faxes ignored. Even baldly turning up at his suite of offices had met with failure. The man was virtually inaccessible, his privacy guarded from unwanted intrusion.
Kristi’s long-standing friendship with Georgina Harrington, the daughter of a foreign diplomat, with whom she’d attended boarding-school, provided the opportunity to meet the Sheikh on a social level. There could be no doubt that without Sir Alexander Harrington’s help she would never have gained an invitation to tonight’s soirée.
The decision to replace Georgina with Kristi as Sir Alexander’s partner had been instigated by a telephone call to the Sheikh’s secretary, and had been closely followed by a fax notifying him that Georgina had fallen prey to a virulent virus and would not be able to attend. It had gone on to ask if there would be any objection to Kristi Dalton, aged twenty-seven, a friend of long-standing, taking Georgina’s place. Details for security purposes were supplied. Acknowledgement together with an acceptance had been faxed through the following day.
The taxi cruised through the streets, the glisten of recent rain sparkling beneath the headlights. London in winter was vastly different from the Southern hemispheric temperatures of Australia, and for a moment she thought longingly of bright sunshine, blue skies and the sandy beaches gracing Queensland’s tropical coast.
It didn’t take long to reach Sir Alexander’s elegant, three-storeyed apartment, and within minutes of paying off the taxi she was drawn into the lounge and handed a glass containing an innocuous mix of lime, lemonade and bitters.
‘Ravishing, darling,’ Georgina accorded with genuine admiration for Kristi’s appearance—a compliment which was endorsed by Sir Alexander.
‘Thank you,’ Kristi acknowledged with a slightly abstracted smile.
So much rested on the next few hours. In her mind she had rehearsed precisely how she would act, what she would say, until the imagery almost assumed reality. There could be no room for failure.
‘I’ve instructed Ralph to have the car out front at five-thirty,’ Sir Alexander informed her. ‘When you have finished your drink, my dear, we will leave.’
Kristi felt the knot of tension tighten in her stomach, and she attempted to disguise her apprehension as Georgina gave her a swift hug.
‘Good luck. I’ll ring you tomorrow and we’ll get together for lunch.’
Sir Alexander’s car was an aged Rolls, the man behind the wheel a valued servant who had been with the Harrington family for so many years that employer and employee had given up trying to remember the number.
‘The traffic is light, sir,’ Ralph intoned as he eased the large vehicle forward. ‘I estimate we will reach the Sheikh’s Berkshire manor in an hour.’
It took precisely three minutes less, Kristi noted as they slowed to a halt before a massive set of wrought-iron gates flanked by two security guards.
Ralph supplied their invitation and sufficient proof of identity, then, as the gates swung open, he eased the Rolls towards the main entrance where they were greeted by yet another guard.
‘Miss Dalton. Sir Harrington. Good evening.’
To the inexperienced eye he appeared to be one of the hired help. Given the evening’s occasion, there was a valid reason for the mobile phone held in one hand. Yet the compilation of information that Kristi had accumulated about his employer left her in little doubt that there was a regulation shoulder-holster beneath his suit jacket, his expertise in the field of martial arts and marksmanship a foregone conclusion.
A butler stood inside the heavily panelled front door, and Kristi relinquished her coat to him before being led at Sir Alexander’s side by a delegated hostess to join fellow guests in a room that could only have been described as sumptuous.
Gilt-framed mirrors and original works of art graced silk-covered walls, and it would have been sacrilege to suggest that the furniture was other than French antique. Multi-faceted prisms of light were reflected from three exquisite crystal chandeliers.
‘I’ll have one of the waiters bring you something to drink. If you’ll excuse me?’
An elaborate buffet was presented for personal selection, and there were several uniformed waitresses circling the room, carrying trays laden with gourmet hors d’oeuvres.
Muted background music was barely distinguishable beneath the sound of chattering voices, and Kristi’s smile was polite as Sir Alexander performed an introduction to the wife of an English earl who had recently presented her husband with a long-awaited son.
Kristi scanned the room idly, observing fellow guests with fleeting interest. Black dinner suit, crisp white cotton shirt and black bow-tie were de rigueur for the men, and her experienced eye detected a number of women wearing designer gowns whose hair and make-up bore evidence of professional artistry.
Her gaze slid to a halt, arrested by a man whose imposing height and stature set him apart from everyone else in the room.
Sheikh Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed.
Newspaper photographs and coloured prints in the pages of glossy magazines didn’t do him justice, for in the flesh he exuded an animal sense of power—a physical magnetism that was riveting.
An assemblage of finely honed muscle accented a broad bone structure, and his facial features bore the sculpted prominence of inherited genes. Dark, well-groomed hair and olive skin proclaimed the stamp of his paternal lineage.
Information regarding his background gleaned from press releases depicted him as the son of an Arabian prince and an English mother—a woman who, it was said, had agreed to an Islamic wedding ceremony which had never been formalised outside Saudi Arabia, and after a brief sojourn in her husband’s palace had fled back to England where she’d steadfastly refused, despite giving birth to a much coveted son, to return to a country where women were subservient to men and took second place to an existing wife.
Yet the love affair between the Prince and his English wife had continued to flourish during his many visits to London, until her untimely death, whereupon the ten-year-old Shalef had been removed from England by his father and introduced to his Arabian heritage.
Now in his late thirties, Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed had won himself international respect among his peers for his entrepreneurial skills, and in the years since his father’s demise his name had become synonymous with immense wealth.
A man no sensible person would want as an enemy, Kristi perceived wryly. Attired in a a superbly cut evening suit, there was an elemental ruthlessness beneath his sophisticated façade.
As if some acute sense alerted him to her scrutiny, he lifted his head, and for a few timeless seconds his eyes locked with hers.
The room and its occupants seemed to fade to the periphery of her vision as she suffered his raking appraisal, and she was unable to control the slow heat coursing through her veins. Intense awareness vibrated from every nerve cell, lifting the fine body hairs on the surface of her skin.
No man of her acquaintance had made her feel so acutely vulnerable, and she found the sensation disconcerting. Had it been any other man, she would have displayed no interest and openly challenged his veiled evaluation. With Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed she couldn’t allow herself the luxury of doing so.
For one split second she glimpsed lurking cynicism in his expression, then his attention was diverted by a man who greeted him with the earnest deference of the emotionally insecure.
The study of body language had been an integral part of her training as a photographer, inasmuch as she’d consciously chosen to emphasise the positive rather than the negative in the posed, still shots that had provided her bread and butter in the early days of her career in her parents’ Double Bay photographic studio.
Kristi’s gaze lingered, her interest entirely professional. Or so she told herself as she observed the slant of Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed’s head, the movement of his sensually moulded mouth as he engaged in polite conversation, the piercing directness of his gaze. To the unwary he appeared totally relaxed, yet there was tensile steel apparent in his stance, a silent strength that was entirely primitive. And infinitely dangerous.
A feather of fear pricked the base of her neck and slithered slowly down the length of her spine. As an enemy he would be lethal.
‘Kristi.’
She turned at the sound of her name and gave Sir Alexander a warm smile.
‘Allow me to introduce Annabel and Lance Shrewsbury.’ His voice was so incredibly polite that Kristi’s eyes held momentary mischief before it was quickly masked. ‘Kristi Dalton, a valued friend from Australia.’
‘Australia!’ Annabel exclaimed in a voice that diminished the country to a position of geographical obscurity. ‘I’m fascinated. Do you live on a farm out there?’
‘Sydney,’ Kristi enlightened her politely. ‘A city with a population in excess of five million.’ She shouldn’t have resorted to wry humour, she knew, but she couldn’t help adding, ‘The large farms are called stations, each comprising millions of acres.’
The woman’s eyes widened slightly. ‘Good heavens. Millions?’
‘Indeed,’ Kristi responded solemnly. ‘A plane or helicopter is used to check boundary fences and monitor stock.’
Annabel suppressed a faint shudder. ‘All that red dirt, the heat, and the snakes. My dear, I couldn’t live there.’ Red-tipped fingers fluttered in an aimless gesture, matching in colour the red-glossed mouth, and in perfection the expensive orthodontic work, and the considerable skill of cosmetic surgery.
Thirty, going on forty-five, married to a wealthy member of the aristocracy, and born to shop, Kristi summarised, endeavouring not to be uncharitable.
‘Sir Alexander.’
Awareness arrowed through her body at the sound of that smooth, well-educated drawl, and she turned slowly to greet their host.
His shirt was of the finest cotton, his dinner suit immaculately tailored to fit his broad frame, and this close she could sense the clean smell of soap mingling with the exclusive tones of his cologne.
Unbidden, her eyes were drawn to his mouth, and she briefly examined its curve and texture, stifling the involuntary query as to what it would be like to have that mouth possess her own. Heaven and hell, a silent voice taunted, dependent on his mood. There was a hint of cruelty apparent, a ruthlessness that both threatened and enticed. A man who held an undeniable attraction for women, she perceived, yet willing to be tamed by very few.
It was almost as if he was able to read her thoughts, for she glimpsed musing mockery in those slate-grey eyes—a colour that was in direct defiance of nature’s genetics, and the only visible feature that gave evidence of his maternal ancestry.
‘Miss Dalton.’
‘Sheikh bin Al-Sayed,’ Kristi acknowledged formally, aware that his gaze rested fractionally long on her hair before lowering to conduct a leisurely appraisal of her features.
It was crazy to feel intensely conscious of every single breath, every beat of her pulse. Silent anger lent her eyes a fiery sparkle, and it took considerable effort to mask it. An effort made all the more difficult as she glimpsed his amusement before he turned his attention to Sir Alexander.
‘Georgina is unwell, I understand?’
‘She asks me to convey her apologies,’ Sir Alexander offered. ‘She is most disappointed not to be able to attend this evening.’
Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed inclined his head. ‘It is to be hoped she recovers soon: He moved forward to speak to a woman who showed no reticence in greeting him with obvious affection.
‘Would you care for another drink?’
Kristi felt as if she’d been running a marathon, and she forced herself to breathe evenly as everything in the room slid into focus. The unobtrusive presence of the waiter was a welcome distraction, and she placed her empty glass on the tray. ‘Mineral water, no ice.’ She didn’t need the complication of a mind dulled by the effects of alcohol.
‘Would you like me to get you something to eat, my dear?’ Sir Alexander queried. ‘Several of the guests seem to be converging on the buffet.’
Kristi summoned a warm smile as she linked her hand through his arm. ‘Shall we join them? I’m feeling quite hungry.’ It was a downright lie, but Sir Alexander wasn’t to know that.
There was so much to choose from, she decided minutes later: hot and cold dishes, salads, hot vegetables, delicate slices of smoked salmon, seafood, chicken, turkey, roast lamb, slender cuts of beef. The selection of desserts would have put any of the finest London restaurants to shame, and the delicate ice sculptures were a visual confirmation of the chef’s artistic skill.
Kristi took two slices of smoked salmon, added a small serving of three different salads, a scoop of caviare, then drifted to one side of the room.
How many guests were present tonight? she pondered idly. Fifty, possibly more? It was impossible to attempt a counting of heads, so she didn’t even try.
Sir Alexander appeared to have been trapped by a society matron who seemed intent on discussing something of great importance, given the intensity of her expression.
‘All alone, chérie? Such a crime.’
The accent was unmistakably French, and she moved slightly to allow her view to encompass the tall frame of a man whose smiling features bore a tinge of practised mockery.
‘You will permit me to share a few minutes with you as we eat?’
She effected a faint shrug. ‘Why not? We’re fellow guests.’
‘You are someone I would like to get to know—very well.’ The pause was calculated, the delicate emphasis unmistakable.
Kristi’s French was flawless, thanks to a degree in Italian and French, her knowledge and accent honed by a year spent in each country. ‘I am selective when it comes to choosing a friend—or a lover, monsieur.’ Her smile was singularly sweet. ‘It is, perhaps, unfortunate that I do not intend to remain in London long enough to devote time to acquiring one or the other.’
‘I travel extensively. We could easily meet.’
His persistence amused her. ‘I think not.’
‘You do not know who I am?’
‘That is impossible, as we have yet to be introduced,’ she managed lightly. Perhaps she presented a challenge.
‘Enchanté, chérie.’ His eyes gleamed darkly as he reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Jean-Claude Longchamp d’Elseve.’ He paused, head tilted slightly as he waited for an expected reaction. When she failed to comply, his mouth assumed a quizzical slant. ‘I cannot believe you lack the knowledge or the intelligence to be aware of the importance my family hold in France.’
‘Really?’
He was an amusing diversion, and he was sufficiently astute to appreciate it. ‘I am quite serious.’
‘So am I, Jean-Claude,’ she declared solemnly.
‘You make no attempt to acquaint me with your name. Does this mean I am to be rejected?’ The musing gleam in his eyes belied the wounded tone.
‘Do you not handle rejection well?’
His mouth parted in subdued laughter. ‘I am so rarely in such a position, it is something of a novelty.’
‘I’m relieved. I would hate to provide you with an emotional scar.’
He still held her hand, and his thumb traced a light pattern over the veins of her wrist. ‘Perhaps we could begin again. Will you have dinner with me?’
‘The answer is still the same.’
‘It will be relatively easy for me to discover where you are staying.’
‘Please don’t,’ Kristi advised seriously.
‘Why not?’ His shrug was eloquent. ‘Am I such objectionable company?’
She pulled her hand free. ‘Not at all.’ She cast him a slight smile. ‘I simply have a tight business schedule and a full social calendar.’
The edge of his mouth curved in pensive humour. ‘You mean to leave me to another woman’s mercy?’
In different circumstances he might have proved to be an amusing companion. ‘I’m sure you can cope.’
His eyes gleamed with hidden warmth. ‘Perhaps. Although I may choose not to.’
‘Your prerogative,’ she accorded lightly. ‘If you’ll excuse me? I should rejoin Sir Alexander.’
Jean-Claude inclined his head and offered a teasing smile. ‘Au revoir, chérie.’
Her food had remained almost untouched, and she handed the plate to a passing waitress, her appetite gone.
Sir Alexander wasn’t difficult to find, although he appeared deep in conversation with a distinguished-looking guest and she was loath to interrupt them.
‘Champagne?’
Kristi cast the waitress and the tray she carried a fleeting glance. Perhaps she should have a glass to diffuse her nervous tension. Even as the thought occurred, she dismissed it. Coffee, strong black and sweet was what she needed, and she voiced the request, then made her way to the end of the buffet table where a uniformed maid was offering a variety of hot beverages.
Declining milk, she moved to one side and sipped the potent brew. The blend was probably excellent, but she hardly noticed as she steeled herself to instigate a planned action.
Seconds later her cup lay on the carpet, and the scalding liquid seared her midriff. The pain was intense—far more so than she’d anticipated.
‘Oh, my dear, how unfortunate. Are you all right?’ The voiced concern brought attention, and within minutes she was being led from the room by the hostess who had greeted them on arrival.
‘We keep the first-aid equipment in a bathroom next to the kitchen.’ The hostess’s voice was calm as she drew Kristi down a wide hallway and into a room that was clinically functional. ‘If you’ll remove your dress I’ll apply a cold compress to cool the skin.’
Kristi complied, adding a sodden half-slip to the heap of ruined silk, then stood silently as the hostess efficiently dealt with the burn, applied salve, then covered the area with a sterile dressing.
‘I’ll organise a robe and have someone take care of your dress.’
Minutes later Kristi willed the hostess a speedy return, for despite central heating the room was cool, and a lacy bra and matching wispy bikini briefs were hardly adequate covering.
A frown creased her forehead, and she unconsciously gnawed at her lower lip, uneasy now that she had implemented her plan. There was a very slim chance that Sheikh bin Al-Sayed would check on her himself. Yet she was a guest in his home, and courtesy alone should ensure that he enquired as to her welfare—surely?
Her scalded flesh stung abominably, despite the hostess’s ministrations. A wide, raised welt of red skin encompassed much of her midriff and tapered off in the region of her stomach. Even she had been surprised that one cup of hot liquid was capable of covering such an area.
A sound alerted Kristi’s attention an instant before the door swung inwards. Her eyes widened measurably as Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed stood momentarily in its aperture.
He held a white towelling robe, his features schooled into a fathomless mask, and she shivered, unable to control the slither of apprehension as he moved into the room and closed the door.
Its soft clunking sound was somehow significant, and her hands moved instinctively to cover her breasts.
‘I suggest you put this on. It would be unfortunate to compound your accident with a chill.’
The room suddenly seemed much smaller, his height and breadth narrowing its confines to a degree where she felt stifled and painfully aware of the scarcity of her attire.
Reaching forward, she took the robe and quickly pushed her arms into the sleeves, then firmly belted the ties, only to wince and ease the knot. ‘Thank you.’
‘Rochelle assures me the burn, while undoubtedly painful, is not serious enough to warrant professional medical attention. Your gown is silk and may not fare well when cleaned. Replace it and send me the bill.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Kristi said stiffly.
‘I insist.’ His gaze was startlingly direct, and difficult for her to hold.
‘It was a simple accident, and the responsibility is entirely mine,’ she declared, hating her body’s reaction to his presence. It had been bad enough in a room full of people. Alone with him, it was much worse.
His eyes narrowed. ‘You decline the replacement of an expensive dress?’
‘I don’t seek an argument with you.’
With easy economy of movement he slid one hand into a trouser pocket—an action which parted the superbly tailored dinner jacket and displayed an expanse of snowy white cotton shirt, beneath which it was all too easy to imagine a taut midriff and steel-muscled chest liberally sprinkled with dark, springy hair.
‘What precisely is it that you do seek, Miss Dalton?’ The words were a quizzical drawl laced with cynicism.
There was an implication, thinly veiled, that succeeded in tightening the muscles supporting her spine. It also lifted her chin and brought a brightness to her eyes.
His smile was totally lacking in humour. ‘All evening I have been intrigued by the method you would choose to attract my attention.’ His mouth assumed a mocking slant. ‘No scenario I envisaged included a self-infliction of injury.’
CHAPTER TWO
KRISTI felt the color drain from her face. ‘How dare you suggest—?’
‘Save your breath, Miss Dalton. An investigation fell into place immediately after your second phone call to my office,’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed informed her with deadly softness. His gaze never left her features as he listed the schools she’d attended, her educational achievements, her parents’ names and the cause of their accidental death, her address, occupation, and a concise compilation of her inherited assets. ‘Your visit to London was precipitated by a desire to accelerate the release of your brother, Shane, who is currently being held hostage in a remote mountain area,’ he concluded in the same silky tones.
Anger surged through her veins, firing a helpless fury. ‘You knew why I was trying to contact you, yet you denied me the courtesy of accepting one of my calls?’
‘There seemed little point. I cannot help you, Miss Dalton.’
The words held a finality that Kristi refused to accept. ‘Shane was unfortunate to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—’
‘Your brother is a professional news photographer who ignored advice and flouted legal sanction in order to enter a forbidden area,’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed declared hardly. ‘He was kidnapped by an opposing faction and taken beyond reach of local authorities, who would surely have instigated his arrest and incarcerated him in prison.’
‘You consider his fate is better with a band of political dissidents?’
His mouth curved into a mere facsimile of a smile. ‘That is debatable, Miss Dalton.’
Concern widened her eyes and robbed her features of their colour. The image of her brother being held captive kept her awake nights; then, when she did manage to sleep, her mind was invaded by nightmares. ‘I implore you—’
‘You beg very prettily,’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed taunted mercilessly, and in that moment she truly hated him. ‘However, I suggest you direct all your enquiries through the appropriate channels. Such negotiations take time and require the utmost delicacy. And patience,’ he added with slight emphasis. ‘On the part of the hostage’s family.’
‘You could help get him out,’ she declared in impassioned entreaty.
His gaze speared through her body and lanced her very soul, freezing her into speechlessness. There was scarcely a sound in the room, only the whisper of her breathing and she couldn’t have looked away from him if she’d tried.
‘We are close to the twenty-first century, Miss Dalton,’ he drawled. ‘You did not imagine I would don a thobe and gutra, mount an Arab steed and ride into the desert on a rescue mission with men following on horseback, taking water and food from conveniently placed oases along the way?’
Kristi ignored his sardonic cynicism, although it cost her considerable effort not to launch a verbal attack. ‘I have a sizeable trust fund which is easily accessed,’ she assured him with determined resolve, grateful in this instance for inherited wealth. ‘Sufficient to cover the cost of hiring Jeeps, men, a helicopter if necessary.’
‘No.’
The single negation sparked a feeling of desperation. She held one ace up her sleeve, but this wasn’t the moment to play it. ‘You refuse to help me?’
‘Go home, Miss Dalton.’ His expression was harsh, and his voice sounded as cold as if it had come direct from the North Pole. ‘Go back to Australia and let the governments sort out the unfortunate incident.’
She wanted to hit him, to lash out physically and berate him for acting like an unfeeling monster.
He knew, and for one fraction of a second his eyes flared, almost as if in anticipation of her action—and the certain knowledge of how he would deal with it. Then the moment was gone, and it had been so swift, so fleeting that she wondered if it hadn’t been a figment of her imagination.
‘You will have to excuse me. I have a party to host,’ he imparted with smooth detachment. ‘Rochelle will bring you something suitable to wear. Should you wish to return to your hotel, it will be arranged for a driver to transport you there. Otherwise, I can only suggest that you attempt to enjoy the rest of the evening.’
‘Please.’ Her voice broke with emotional intensity.
His eyes flayed every layer of protective clothing, burning skin, tissue, seeming to spear through to her very soul. With deliberate slowness he appraised her slender figure, resting over-long on the curve of her breasts, the apex between her thighs, before sweeping up to settle on the soft fullness of her mouth. ‘There is nothing you can offer me as a suitable enticement.’
Anger brightened her eyes, and pride kept her head high. ‘You insult my intelligence, Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed. I was appealing for your compassion. Sex was never a consideration.’
‘You are a woman, Miss Dalton. Sex is always a consideration.’
A soft tinge of pink coloured her cheeks as she strove to keep a rein on her temper. She drew a deep, ragged breath, then released it slowly. ‘Not even for my brother would I use my body as a bartering tool.’
His eyes narrowed with cynical amusement. ‘No?’
She was sorely tempted to yell at him, but that would only have fuelled his amusement. ‘No.’ The word was quietly voiced and carried far more impact than if she’d resorted to angry vehemence.
He turned towards the door, and the blood seemed to roar in her ears, then she felt it slowly drain, leaving her disoriented and dangerously lightheaded for an instant before she managed to gather some measure of control.
‘What would it take for you to make a personal appeal to Mehmet Hassan on my behalf?’ The words were singularly distinct, each spoken quietly, but they caused Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed to pause, then turn slowly to face her.
His features were assembled into an inscrutable mask, and his eyes held a wariness that was chilling.
‘Who precisely is Mehmet Hassan?’ The voice was dangerously quiet, the silky tones deceptive, for she sensed a finely honed anger beneath their surface.
She felt trapped by the intentness of those incredible eyes, much like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car, and she took a deep, shuddering breath, then released it slowly. ‘You attended the same school and established a friendship which exists to this day, despite Mehmet Hassan’s little-known link with political dissident leaders.’
Dark lashes lowered, successfully hooding his gaze. ‘I know a great many people, Miss Dalton,’ he drawled, ‘some of whom I number as friends.’
She had his attention. She dared not lose it.
‘You travel to Riyadh several times a year on business, occasionally extending your stay to venture into the desert with a hunting party to escape from the rigours of the international corporate world. You never go alone, and it has been whispered that Mehmet Hassan has been your guest on a number of occasions.’
He was silent for what seemed to be several minutes but could only have been seconds. ‘Whispers, like grains of sand, are swept far by the desert winds and retain no substance.’
‘You deny your friendship with Mehmet Hassan?’
His expression hardened, his eyes resembling obsidian. ‘What is the purpose of this question?’
Steady, an inner voice cautioned. ‘I want you to take me with you to Riyadh.’
‘Entry into Saudi Arabia requires a sponsor.’
‘Something you could arrange without any effort.’
‘If I was so inclined.’
‘I suggest you are inclined,’ Kristi said carefully.
Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed’s appraisal was all-encompassing as it slowly raked her slim frame. ‘You would dare to threaten me?’ he queried with dangerous softness, and she shivered inwardly at the ominous, almost lethal quality apparent in his stance.
‘I imagine the media would be intensely interested to learn of the link between Sheikh Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed and Mehmet Hassan,’ she opined quietly. ‘Questions would undoubtedly be raised, public opinion swayed, and at the very least it would cause you embarrassment.’
‘There is a very high price to pay for attempted blackmail, Miss Dalton.’
She pulled the figurative ace and played it. ‘I am applying the rudiments of successful business practice. A favour in exchange for information withheld. My terms, Sheikh bin Al-Sayed, are unrestricted entry into Riyadh under your sponsorship. For my own protection, it is necessary for me to be a guest in your home. By whichever means you choose you will make contact with Mehmet Hassan and request his help in negotiating for my brother’s release. In return, I will meet whatever expenses are incurred.’ Her eyes never wavered from his. ‘And pledge my silence.’
‘I could disavow any knowledge of this man you call Mehmet Hassan.’
‘I would know you lie.’
If he could have killed her, he would have done so. It was there in his eyes, the flexing of a taut muscle at the edge of his cheek. ‘What you ask is impossible.’
A faint smile lifted the comer of her mouth. ‘Difficult, but not impossible.’
The sound of a discreet knock at the door, and seconds later Rochelle entered the room with a swathe of black draped over her arm.
‘Perhaps we can arrange to further this discussion at a more opportune time?’ Kristi offered with contrived politeness. ‘It would be impolite to neglect your guests for much longer.’
Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed inclined his head. ‘Indeed. Shall we say dinner tomorrow evening? I will send a car to your hotel at six.’
A tiny thrill of exhilaration spiralled through her body. ‘Thank you.’
His eyes were hooded and his smile was barely evident. ‘I shall leave you with Rochelle,’ he declared formally, then, with a dismissing gesture, he moved into the passageway and closed the door behind him.
‘I think these should be adequate,’ Rochelle indicated as she held out the evening trousers and an elegant beaded top.
They were superb, the style emphasising Kristi’s slender frame and highlighting the delicate fragility of her features.
‘Do you feel ready to rejoin the party? Sir Alexander Harrington has expressed anxiety as to your welfare.’
‘Thank you.’
It really was a splendid gathering, Kristi acknowledged silently some time later as she sipped an innocuous fruit punch. She had attended many social events in the past ten years in numerous capital cities around the world, with guests almost as impressive as these, in prestigious homes that were equally opulent as this one. Yet none had proved to be quite as nerve-racking.
Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed was not a man to suffer fools gladly. And deep inside she couldn’t discount the fact that she was indeed being foolish in attempting to best him. Twice in the past hour she had allowed her gaze to scan the room casually, unconsciously seeking the autocratic features of her host among the many guests.
Even when relaxed he had an inherent ruthlessness that she found vaguely disturbing. Yet familial loyalty overrode the need for rational thought, and she dampened down a feeling of apprehension at the prospect of sharing dinner with him the following evening.
A strange prickling sensation began at the back of her neck, and some inner force made her seek its source, her gaze seeming to home in on the man who silently commanded her attention.
Dark eyes seared her own, and the breath caught in her throat for a few long seconds as she suffered his silent annihilation, then she raised one eyebrow and slanted him a polite smile before deliberately turning towards Sir Alexander.
‘Would you like to leave, my dear?’
Kristi offered him a bemused look, and glimpsed his concern. ‘It is getting late,’ she agreed, moving to his side as they began circling the room to where their host stood listening to an earnest-looking couple conducting what appeared to be an in-depth conversation.
‘Sir Alexander, Miss Dalton.’ The voice was pleasant, the tone polite.
‘It has been a most enjoyable evening,’ Sir Alexander said cordially, while Kristi opted to remain silent.
‘It is to be hoped the effects of your accident will be minimal, Miss Dalton,’ Shalef drawled, and she responded with marked civility,
‘Thank you, Sheikh bin Al-Sayed, for the borrowed clothes. I shall have them cleaned and returned to you.’
He merely inclined his head in acknowledgement, and Kristi found herself mentally counting each step that led from the lounge.
As they reached the foyer, instruction was given for the Rolls to be brought around. Within minutes they were both seated in the rear and Ralph began easing the vehicle down the long, curving driveway.
‘I trust you were successful, my dear?’
Kristi turned towards Sir Alexander with a faint smile. ‘To a degree, although he was aware of the deliberate orchestration. We’re to dine together tomorrow evening.’
‘Be careful,’ he bade her seriously. ‘Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed is not someone with whom I would choose to cross words.’
A chill finger feathered its way down her spine. A warning? ‘Shane’s welfare is too important for me to back down now.’
A hand covered hers briefly in conciliation. ‘I understand. However, as a precaution, I would suggest you keep me abreast of any developments. I feel a certain degree of responsibility.’
‘Of course.’
It was after midnight when Ralph slid the Rolls to a halt outside the main entrance to her hotel, and an hour later she lay gazing sightlessly at the darkened ceiling, unable to sleep. There was still a slight rush of adrenalin firing her brain, a feeling of victory mixed with anxiety that prevented the ability to relax. Would Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed present a very clever argument in opposition to her bid to have him take her to Riyadh? Call her bluff regarding her threat to inform the media of his friendship with Mehmet Hassan? She had seventeen hours to wait before she found out.
Kristi stepped out of the lift at precisely five minutes to six and made her way to the foyer. It was raining heavily outside, the sky almost black, and the wind howled along the space between tall buildings and up narrow alleyways with a ferocity of sound that found its way inside each time the main entrance doors swung open.
An omen? It wasn’t a night one would have chosen to venture out in, not if a modicum of common sense was involved. The occasional blast of cold air penetrated the warmth of the central heating like icy fingers reaching in to pluck out the unwary.
Kristi drew the edges of her coat together, adjusted the long woollen scarf, then plunged her hands into her capacious pockets.
Where would they dine? There was an excellent restaurant in the hotel. She would feel infinitely safer if they remained in familiar surroundings.
She watched as a black Bentley swept in beneath the portico. The driver emerged, spoke briefly to the attendant, then strode indoors to receive the concierge’s attention, who, after listening intently, gave an indicative nod in Kristi’s direction.
Intrigued, she waited for him to reach her.
‘Miss Dalton?’ He produced ID and waited patiently while she scrutinised it. ‘Sheikh bin Al-Sayed has instructed me to drive you to his home in Berkshire.’
Her stomach performed a backward flip, then settled with an uneasy fluttering of nerves. His territory, when she’d hoped for the relative safety of a restaurant in which to conduct negotiations.
The success of her ploy rested on one single fact: information that was known to only a privileged few. Her source had extracted a vow of secrecy—a promise she intended to honour despite any threat Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed could throw at her.
The large vehicle escaped the city’s outskirts, gathered speed, its passage becoming much too swift for Kristi’s peace of mind.
It was stupid to feel so nervous, she rationalised as the Bentley slid between the heavy wrought-iron gates and progressed up the curved drive. Insane to feel afraid when the house was staffed with a complement of servants. Yet she was consumed with a measure of both when the door opened and Rochelle ushered her inside.
‘May I take your coat?’ With it folded across one arm, she indicated a door to her right. ‘Come through to the lounge.’
The room was measurably smaller than the large, formal lounge used for last night’s party, Kristi observed as she followed Rochelle’s gesture and sank down into one of the several deep-seated sofas.
‘Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Orange juice? Tea or coffee?’
Hot, fragrant tea sounded wonderful, and she said as much, accepting the steaming cup minutes later.
‘If you’ll excuse me?’ Rochelle queried. ‘Sheikh bin Al-Sayed will join you shortly.’
Was it a deliberate tactic on his part to keep her waiting? In all probability, Kristi conceded as she sipped the excellent brew.
He had a reputation as a powerful strategist, a man who hired and fired without hesitation in his quest for dedication and commitment from his employees. The pursuit of excellence in all things, at any cost. Wasn’t that the consensus of everything she’d managed to learn about him? Admires enterprise, respects equals and dismisses fools.
But what of the man behind the image? Had the contrast between two vastly different cultures caused a conflict of interest and generated a recentment that he didn’t totally belong to either? Little was known of his personal life as a child, whether his mother favoured a strict British upbringing or willingly allowed him knowledge of his father’s religion and customs.
If there had been any problems, it would appear that he’d dealt with and conquered them, Kristi reflected as she replaced the cup down on its saucer.
‘Miss Dalton.’
She gave a start of surprise at the sound of his voice. His entry into the room had been as silent as that of a cat.
‘Sheikh bin Al-Sayed,’ she acknowledged with a calmness that she was far from feeling. If she’d still been holding the cup it would have rattled as it touched the saucer.
‘My apologies for keeping you waiting.’
He didn’t offer a reason, and she didn’t feel impelled to ask for one. Her eyes were cool and distant as they met his, her features assembled into a mask of deliberate politeness.
‘You’ve finished your tea. Would you care for some more?’
The tailored black trousers and white chambray shirt highlighted his powerful frame—attire that verged on the informal, and a direct contrast to the evening suit of last night.
It made her feel overdressed, her suit too blatant a statement with its dramatic red figure-hugging skirt and fitted jacket. Sheer black hose and black stilettos merely added emphasis.
‘No. Thank you,’ she added as she sank back against the cushions in a determined bid to match his detachment.
‘I trust the burn no longer causes you discomfort?’
The skin was still inflamed and slightly tender, but there was no sign of blistering. ‘It’s fine.’
He accepted her assurance without comment. ‘Dinner will be served in half an hour.’
‘You do intend to feed me.’ The words emerged with a tinge of mockery, and she saw one of his eyebrows slant in a gesture of cynicism.
‘I clearly specified dinner.’
Kristi forced herself to conduct a silent study of his features, observing the broad, powerfully defined cheekbones and the sensual shaping of his mouth. Dark slate-grey eyes possessed an almost predatory alertness, and she couldn’t help wondering if they could display any real tenderness.
A woman would have to be very special to penetrate his self-imposed armour. Did he ever let down his guard, or derive enjoyment from the simple pleasures in life? In the boardroom he was regarded as an icon. And in the bedroom? There could be little doubt that he would possess the technique to drive a woman wild, but did he ever care enough to become emotionally involved? Was he, in turn, driven mad with passion? Or did he choose to distance himself?
It was something she would never know, Kristi decided with innate honesty. Something she never wanted to know.
‘Shall we define what arrangements need to be made?’ It was a bold beginning, especially when she felt anything but bold.
One eyebrow rose in a dark curve. ‘We have the evening, Miss Dalton. An initial exchange of pleasantries would not be untoward, surely?’ It was a statement, politely voiced, but there was steel beneath the silk. A fact she chose to heed—in part.
‘Do you usually advocate wasting time during a business meeting?’ Kristi proffered civilly.
‘I conduct business in my office.’
‘And entertain in your home?’
‘Our discussion contains a politically delicate element which would be best not overheard by fellow diners, don’t you agree?’ he drawled, noting the tight clasp of her fingers as she laced her hands together.
She drew a deep breath and deliberately tempered its release. ‘We are alone now.’
His smile held no pretension to humour. ‘I suggest you contain your impatience until after dinner.’
It took a tremendous effort to contain her anger. ‘If you insist.’
He registered the set of her shoulders as she unconsciously squared them, the almost prim placing of one silk-encased ankle over the other. ‘Why not enjoy a light wine? Diluted, if you choose, with soda water.’
It might help her relax. She needed to, desperately. ‘Thank you. Three-quarters soda.’
Why couldn’t he be older, and less masculine? Less forceful, with little evidence of a raw virility that played havoc with her nervous system? Last night he had dominated a room filled with guests and succeeded in diminishing her defences. A fact she’d put down to circumstance and acute anxiety. Yet tonight she was aware that nothing had changed.
His very presence was unnerving, and she consciously fought against his physical magnetism as she accepted the glass from his hand.
‘You are a photographer,’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed stated as he took a comfortable chair opposite. His movements were fluid, lithe, akin to those of a large cat. ‘Did you chose to follow in your brother’s footsteps?’
Conversation. That’s all it is, she reminded herself as she took an appreciative sip of the spritzer. It was cool and crisp to the palate, pleasant.
‘Not deliberately. Shane was the older brother I adored as a child,’ Kristi explained, prey to a host of images, all of them fond. ‘Consequently I was intensely interested in everything he did. Photography became his obsession. Soon it was mine,’ she concluded simply.
‘Initially within Australia, then to various capitals throughout the world.’
‘Facts you were able to access from my dossier.’
He lifted his tumbler and took a long draught of his own drink. ‘A concise journalistic account.’ His eyes speared hers, dark and relentless beneath the slightly hooded lids. ‘Words which can’t begin to convey several of the offbeat assignments you were contracted to undertake.’
‘Photographs, even video coverage, don’t adequately express the horror of poverty, illness and famine in some Third World countries. The hopelessness that transcends anger, the acceptance of hunger. The utter helplessness one feels at being able to do so little. The impossibility of distancing yourself from the harsh reality of it all, aware that you’re only there for as long as it takes to do your job, before driving a Jeep out to the nearest airstrip and boarding a cargo shuttle that transports you back to civilisation, where you pick up your life again and attempt to pretend that what you saw, what you experienced, was just a bad dream.’
‘Until the next time.’
‘Until the next time,’ Kristi echoed.
He surveyed her thoughtfully for several long seconds. ‘You’re very good at what you do.’
She inclined her head and ventured, with a touch of mockery, ‘But you can’t understand why I failed to settle for freelancing and filling the society pages, in a photographic studio, as my parents did.’
‘The lack of challenge?’
Oh, yes. But it had been more than that—a great deal more. The photographic studio still operated, as a mark of respect for their parents, run by a competent photographer called Annie who doubled as secretary. It was an arrangement which worked very well, for it allowed Kristi freedom to pursue international assignments.
‘And a desire to become your brother’s equal.’
She digested his words, momentarily intrigued by a possibility that had never occurred to her until this man had voiced it. ‘You make it sound as if I wanted to compete against him,’ she said slowly, ‘when that was never the case.’
‘Yet you have chosen dangerous locations,’ he pursued, watching the play of emotions on her expressive features.
Her eyes assumed a depth and dimension that mirrored her inner feelings. ‘I don’t board a plane and flit off to the other side of the world every second week. Sometimes there are months in between assignments, and I spend that time working out of the studio, attending social events, taking the society shots, sharing the family-portrait circuit with Annie.’ She paused momentarily. ‘When I undertake an assignment I want my work to matter, to encapsulate on film precisely what is needed to bring the desired result.’ The passion was clearly evident in her voice, and there was a soft tinge of pink colouring her cheeks. ‘Whether that be preserving a threatened environmental area or revealing the horrors of deprivation.’
‘There are restrictions imposed on women photographers?’
It was a fact which irked her unbearably.
‘Unfortunately feminism and equality in the workforce haven’t acquired universal recognition.’
‘Have you not once considered what your fate might have been if it had been you, and not your brother, who had taken a miscalculated risk and landed in the hands of political dissidents?’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed queried with dangerous softness as he finished his drink and placed the glass down on a nearby side-table.
Topaz-gold chips glowed deep in her eyes as she subjected him to the full force of a hateful glare. A hand lifted and smoothed a drifting tendril of hair behind one ear. ‘Shane refused to allow me to accompany him.’
‘Something for which you should be eternally grateful,’ he stated hardly.
Kristi caught the slight tightening of facial muscles that transformed his features into a hard mask. Impenetrable, she observed, together with a hint of autocratic arrogance that was undoubtedly attributable to his paternal forebears, and which added an element of ruthlessness to his demeanour.
‘It would appear that, although a fool, your brother is not totally stupid.’
‘Don’t you dare—’
She halted mid-sentence as Rochelle entered the room unannounced. ‘Hilary is ready to serve dinner.’
Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed nodded briefly, and Rochelle exited as soundlessly as she had appeared.
‘You were saying?’
‘You have no reason to insult my brother,’ she asserted fiercely.
He smiled, although it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Familial loyalty can sometimes appear blind.’ He stood and moved towards her. ‘Shall we go in to dinner?’
‘Kristi tried to bank down her resentment as she vacated the chair. ‘I seem to have lost my appetite:
‘Perhaps you can attempt to find it.’
CHAPTER THREE
THE dining room was smaller than she’d imagined, although scarcely small, with its beautiful antique table and seating for eight, and a long chiffonier. Glassed cabinets housed an enviable collection of china and crystal. Expensive paintings and gilt-framed mirrors adorned the walls, and light from electric candles was reflected in an exquisite crystal chandelier. Several silver-domed covers dominated the table, with its centrepiece of exotic orchids.
Kristi slid into the chair that Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed held out for her, then he moved round to take a seat opposite.
A middle-aged woman with pleasant features busied herself removing covers from the heated platters, then indicated a choice of desserts and the cheeseboard, laid out atop the chiffonier.
With a cheerful smile, Hilary—it had to be Hilary, Kristi surmised—turned toward her employer. ‘Shall I serve the soup?’
‘Thank you, Hilary. We’ll manage.’
‘Ring when you require coffee.’
He removed the lid from a china tureen. ‘I trust you enjoy leek and potato soup, Miss Dalton?’
‘Yes.’
He took her plate and ladled out a medium portion before tending to his own. ‘Bon appetit,’ he said with a tinge of mockery, and she inclined her head in silent acknowledgement.
The soup was delicious, and followed by superb beef Wellington with an assortment of vegetables.
‘Wine?’
‘Just a little,’ Kristi agreed, motioning for him to stop when the glass was half-filled.
He ate with an economy of movement, his hands broad, with a sprinkling of dark hair, the fingers long, well formed and obviously strong. She could imagine them reining in a horse and manoeuvring the wheel of a rugged four-wheel drive. Gently drifting over the skin of a responsive woman. Hell, where did that come from? Her hand paused midway to her mouth, then she carefully returned the fork to rest on her plate. The pressure of the past few weeks, culminating over the last two days, had finally taken its toll. She was going insane. There seemed no other logical explanation for the passage of her thoughts.
‘Can I help you to some more vegetables?’
Her vision cleared, and she swallowed in an endeavour to ease the constriction in her throat. ‘No. Thank you,’ she added in a voice that sounded slightly husky.
He had eaten more quickly than she, consuming twice the amount of food.
‘Dessert?’
She settled for some fresh fruit, and followed it with a sliver of brie, observing his choice of apple crumble with cream. The man had a sweet tooth. Somehow it made him seem more human.
‘Shall we return to the lounge for coffee?’
‘Thank you,’ she returned politely, watching as he dispensed with his napkin. Kristi did likewise and then stood.
He moved to the door and opened it, ushering her into the hallway.
A host of butterfly wings began to flutter inside her stomach. The past two hours had been devoted to observing the conventions. Now it was down to business. And somehow she had to convince him that she’d use the information she held against him in order to ensure that he would enlist Mehmet Hassan’s help in freeing her brother.
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed bade her as they entered the lounge, and she watched as he pressed an electronic button beside the wall-switch. ‘Hilary will bring coffee.’
Kristi sank into the same chair she’d occupied on her arrival. ‘Sheikh bin Al-Sayed.’ Now that the moment had come, it was costing her more effort than she’d envisaged. ‘Dinner was very pleasant,’ she began. ‘But now—’
‘You want to discuss business,’ he concluded with a touch of mockery as he took the chair opposite.
‘Yes.’
He placed an elbow on each arm of the chair and steepled his fingers, assuming an enigmatic expression that she couldn’t begin to fathom. ‘The ball is in your court, Miss Dalton. I suggest you play it.’
Her eyes were steady, the tip of her chin tilting at a firm angle as she carefully put the metaphorical ball in motion. ‘When do you plan leaving for Riyadh?’
‘Next week.’
The butterfly wings increased their tempo inside her stomach. ‘With your influence I imagine that allows sufficient time to have the necessary sponsorship papers processed.’
‘Indeed.’
So far, so good. ‘Perhaps you could let me have flight details, and any relevant information I need.’
He was silent for several seconds, and the silence seemed to grow louder with each one that passed.
‘The flight details are simple, Miss Dalton. We board a commercial airline to Bahrain, then take my private jet to Riyadh.’ He regarded her with an intensity that had the butterfly wings beating a frantic tattoo. ‘Not so simple is the reason for your accompanying me.’
It seemed such a small detail. ‘Why?’
‘My father’s third wife and her two daughters live in the palace, each of whom will be wildly curious as to why I have chosen to bring a woman with me.’
Surprise widened her eyes. ‘You’re joking. Aren’t you?’ she queried doubtfully.
‘Since I can avail myself of any woman I choose,’ he drawled hatefully, ‘the fact that I have brought one with me will be viewed as having considerable significance—not only by my late father’s family, but by several of my friends.’ He smiled—a mere facsimile which held an element of pitiless disregard. ‘Tell me, Miss Dalton, would you prefer to be accepted as the woman in my life, or a—’ he paused imperceptibly ‘—transitory attraction?’
Hilary chose that moment to enter the room, wheeling a trolley bearing a silver coffee-pot, two cups and saucers, milk, cream and sugar, together with a plate of petit fours.
‘Thank you, Hilary. The meal was superb, as usual,’ Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed complimented her while Kristi inwardly seethed with anger. Somehow she managed to dredge up a smile and add to her host’s praise. However, the instant that Hilary disappeared out the door she launched into immediate attack.
‘What is wrong with presenting me to your family as a guest?’ she demanded heatedly.
His eyes hardened measurably, and she felt the beginnings of unease. ‘I accord Nashwa and her two daughters the respect they deserve. Whenever I visit Riyadh I observe the customs of my father’s country for the duration of my stay. As sponsor, I must vouch for your good behaviour while you are in Saudi Arabia, take responsibility for your welfare, and ensure your departure when it is time for you to leave.’
Kristi lifted a hand, then let it fall in a gesture of helpless anger. Her main consideration was Shane, and the influence that Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed could wield with Mehmet Hassan in negotiating her brother’s release.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/helen-bianchin/desert-mistress/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
HELEN BIANCHIN
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
Отзывы: Пока нет Добавить отзыв
О книге: FORBIDDEN!Bargain with the devil! Kristi′s journalist brother was a hostage, and only one man could help: Sheikh Shalef Al-Sayed. He had power and influence at his fingertips – but how could Kristi win his support? Shalef was way out of her league. His world of wealth and privilege was closed to Kristi… .Gate-crashing his glamorous cocktail party was the only way of grabbing his attention! But Kristi got more than she bargained for. Becoming the mistress of this enigmatic, dangerously attractive man hadn′t been part of her plan, yet this was the deal and Kristi had no choice. If she wanted Shalef′s help, she′d have to play the game his way, and he was clearly making – and breaking – all the rules!"Helen Bianchin mixes suspense with enthralling characters into an intense reading experience." – Romantic Times on Forgotten Husband